


City Lights

by tarouhi



Series: asphyxia [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:01:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23455951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarouhi/pseuds/tarouhi
Summary: The Puppeteer has made a name for himself in London. The infamous serial killer's eccentric methods of killing brings havoc for the authorities. It escalates until one Tom Riddle and his team are assigned to the case.It's a good thing that Harry always comforted him when he's home.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: asphyxia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687405
Comments: 28
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time since I wrote something, but I couldn't resist. Unbeta'd, as usual.

It's a slow burn that leeches onto the very skin, digs beneath layers of cells, and finds itself a place to reside in. It makes one want to dig the heart out, until there is nothing but a deep cavity in one's chest. But still- that is not _enough._

He craves, he craves, and he craves. Then he takes.

The warmth of flesh beneath his fingertips makes him feel power; it makes him drown in waves of pleasure.

He laughs, light and airy, until his partner of choice loses the rhythm in their lungs.

A dance with death, fulfilled.

"I simply adore the way you waltz."

The cases accounted towards [The Puppeteer] morbidly increases.

The body he toys with that night is strung beautifully across the city hall, bones on the verge of breaking. But it is that edge that gives his kills a kick. His victims, no, his dolls, seem lifelike yet one foot into the grave at the same time.

It is the beauty of life and death, wrapped in one, neat little package.

He takes the heart, as he always does.

"Welcome home, Tom!"

Here, he let his mask slip into a smile. Tom accepts the tight embrace from his boyfriend (so short, and _such_ a darling, his paternal grandmother always thought) and ruffles his hair.

"I'm home." Tom halted when he realized the flat was filled with an... interesting scent. "Did you try to invent another disastrous recipe?"

"No! I just mixed up baking power and baking soda. Well, okay, I took a lot of liberties because I couldn't remember the exact recipe- By the time I realized I screwed up, I was almost done with the cookies..." Here, Harry seemed hesitant, stealing a glance at his face before turning away. "And you know, I can't bring myself to toss them out."

"Oh," Tom's gaze softened, cupping his boy's cheeks. It pleased him to feel the warmth of the flushed face. "Of course I know, Harry. As long as the events of my last birthday do not happen again."

A laugh bursts out of his lover, his _light_ , and he allows himself to be drowned in the music. Nothing could compare to this; this domesticity he shared with his one and only.

"When I smuggled in a baking soda volcano? I don't know, it might be fun when you least expect it."

Tom feigned a troubled expression before sighing, "Come, you little minx. I'll test it for poison, just for you."

Harry clung to his side with a delighted grin and pulled his arm towards the kitchen. The cookies weren't as bad as he'd thought, given his boyfriend's previous record. If Tom rewarded him for that afterwards..? Well, it's up to the imagination.

His patience is draining.

There used to be months in-between his murders. But now, his hand trembles with the very thought of sinking his claws into passerby's. When he bumps into one, he apologizes, because it is the normal thing to do. But all he wants is to tear and tear and-

It isn't fear he's facing, it's the adrenaline of being right underneath the police's nose.

How far can he push the limits, he wonders?

The abandoned church gives him no answers, and certainly no gods to pray to.

With the number of victims he's taken in a short span of five years, he may as well be a god himself. He may as well be a man-made disaster.

"I'm assigning your team to this case, Riddle." Shacklebolt said firmly, a look in his eyes that denied any argument. A heavy stack of files now resided comfortably on the desk between them.

Tom pinches the bridge of his nose, responding in a polite, yet sharp tone. "Yes, sir. I will have them look everything over in due time."

"We are not here to _play._ " The disdain in the other man's voice clear, "The department has been in shambles, trying to pick up missing pieces despite the number of men dead. Which is increasing by the day, mind you."

He felt a scowl crawl up his own face before suppressing it. "You want us to be another team of sacrificial lambs, then. _Thank you_ for your trust in us."

Shacklebolt, to his credit, merely walked out (though anyone familiar with him could tell that he was fuming).

Tom could already tell the week would be long. But he supposes starting now wouldn't hurt.

With coffee in hand- which had already cooled, to his dissatisfaction- he flipped through the first few cases of The Puppeteer.

The first, Arabella Figg, was found dead in her own home, which resided in Little Whinging. Piano strings had cut through her joints, then tied to the ceiling. Her neighbors had not even thought of anything abnormal, til days later and the shadow behind the curtains kept _dancing_. There was no pause, no end. Faint radio music washed over the sound of creaking bones while freshly baked cookies covered the scent of rotting flesh. Mrs.Figg also sported hollow chest, devoid of neither a beating heart nor a still and silent one.

Needless to say, the unfortunate neighbor who entered the unlocked house had a nasty shock. Tom noticed a transcript from an interview at the bottom:

_RS: They say that you saw something horrifying, Mrs.Dursley. Could you share with us the details? Of course, it is up to your own decision, but I'm sure everyone is... dying to hear your point of view._

_[Here, Mrs.Dursley sinks into the couch, as if wanting to distance herself from those terrible events. But with great courage, she spoke her next, haunting words.]_

_PD: Her... her face._

_RS: Was her face disfigured? Has she had her eyeballs gouged? Those two seem to be the most popular options for killers of this sort._

_PD: No- she, she was smiling. It was sewn on. It looked like she was having the time of her life-_

The transcript cut off there, for it seemed the person who organized the file decided that was the only relevant piece to include. Good riddance, too. Tom always found Rita Skeeter to be far too nosy for her own good.

Tom kept looking through the files one by one, stopping at any that caught his interest. Of course, he had seen snippets of these in newspaper, but those were heavily censored due to The Puppeteer's antics. So, he took the chance to indulge in such information.

He thinks it's beautiful when they scream. It shows their vitality; their will to live just to experience pleasure.

Then there are beggars, and oh, he loved beggars.

"Please let me go! I won't speak of it to anyone, I won't tell any soul... I swear..."

He presses his soft, pink lips against their sweaty skin and promises a paradise beyond death. They shudder at his very breath, or even if he took a step closer to them.

"I've heard of you..." They always said, they always start. With determined faces that barely concealed fatigue, they always struggle. By the end, though, they are nothing but another pile of skeletons in his closet.

It takes confidence to put on a show. So, with slow self encouragement, he eventually shows his work to the world.

The stage is set, and the dance begins.

The audience is late, but he thinks they can at least see the second half of the show. He's made sure of it.

A fax is sent to the police department.


	2. Chapter 2

Within less than twenty-four hours of receiving the case, Tom already had a crime scene to visit. Fresh out of the oven too, it appeared. He waited for the others to gather evidence on the side- which meant another stack of photos to sort into the files later- and began to speculate.

The department had only known the location from a fax that went through:

_Would you care for a free entrance to our show? If so, please see the following package arriving to your doorsteps within the next ten minutes.  
_

_Send the new team of little detectives my best regards.  
_

Of course, the package that arrived later contained none other than the last victim's heart, Forensics found. The one delivering it had no clue, and was thoroughly in shock.

An attached note, separate from the heart itself, told of the location: A famous theater horrifyingly close to the police station.

When they entered, the animated corpse on the stage decided the time was right to _fall apart_. Like a game of Jenga gone wrong.

(A few of them, notably the ones with better hearing than the rest, said that there was a high pitched laughter.)

The Forensics team seemed to shrink into themselves, undoubtedly disappointed for the inevitable tampering of the scene. It would certainly make it harder to uncover several aspects, and Tom thought one Hermione Granger looked more frazzled than usual.

No matter. For now, he had a job to do.

"I think you're charming," He confessed.

He didn't mind the silence of the deceased; in fact, he thrived in it.

"Please don't blame me if I can't hold back. I only want to caress your heart, tell you of a story, and give you eternal love."

The quiet could have been damning to anyone else, but he makes it his domain.

Grey eyeballs laid on the floor, detached from the original body.

"Riddle," Granger approached him apprehensively, "There was something else we found."

Tom set aside the reports gathered from the scene in favor of listening to his coworker. He studied her expression while resting on folded hands.

Determined, yet shaken, he thinks.

"Well? Go on, Granger."

"The heart is, well, missing as always. But the victim's chest wasn't an empty cavity like the rest. A pair of _eyeballs_ laid there." She took in a deep breath before continuing, though her complexion had certainly paled. "We only noticed because of the small opening on the side, and the eyes were a pale grey. But he.. The Puppeteer, used to sew them back up."

Silence draped over the office.

The victim this time around, Ginny Weasley, was not missing any eyes. That was the fact that both of them knew, and did not have to repeat aloud.

"He has grown bolder, and more.. like a wild animal." Tom commented with an icy tone, "Find a list of missing individuals within the past month, will you? Specifically, ones known to have eyes of that color."

("Glitter." Neville said while examining the eyeballs, which had been extracted from the victim's chest.

"I'm sorry?" Hermione must have heard it wrong, for she was on the other side of the room. She stepped towards him, then cast a look at the evidence on the table.

"The bastard glued silver _glitter_ to the irises.")

He stays with the body, gifting it gentle acts of love. 

One moment, it means a kiss to the bloodied cheek. The next, it is a sounding snap of the neck.

It's the most intimate thing he's done thus far, and it sates his hunger.

So he keeps his toy for just a while longer.

Tom had promptly collapsed on the couch when he arrived home, feeling a headache creep in before he succumbed to a much-needed sleep. His limbs felt too fatigued to complete any other task.

But even in his mind, he went through information from today _._

_The dismembered parts of Ginny Weasley staring back at him from the stage, as if he was the cause-_

_Grey eyes stared into him, accusing._

_There was no body to be found._

_'Look at me,' Weasley seemed to convey, even with the sewn on smile, 'Look at what you have done.'_

He awoke with sweat sticking to his shirt, but Tom, for the life of him, could not remember.

In his distress to rise from the couch, he kicks over a black box beneath the coffee table. Tom sighs at his unusual clumsiness and puts it back to place after securing the lid.

A pair of scissors sat beneath the couch, unnoticed. 

He dresses to look his best, in suit and all.

"Could I have this dance?"

His partner with an everlasting smile said nothing, but allowed him to take his hand. His partner is pulled along his strings, while he sings praises to him.

He doesn't mind playing house.

"Tom."

He thinks it's a trick of the light, or that he's disorientated enough to see an illusion.

Then he was hugged, almost suffocating in tightness.

Then he hates it, because it feels like he's some prey under a predator's line of sight-

"It's okay. I'm here."

Tom blinks away the heat in the corners of his eyes, lets himself be petted, and melts into Harry's touch.

"Harry, you're home."

"I am," He agreed, "I went out for groceries earlier. Imagine my surprise when I come home to this."

Harry always goes out on Tuesdays to shop for their necessities, and Tom finds it both endearing and worrying. Harry's part time job as a barista is less taxing on him, but it also means that he barely leaves the house on some days.

("I love you, Tom. But I can't... There's too many things I can't do with you," Harry looked both flustered and on the verge of tears when he had first confessed. "This stupid, _stupid_ body of mine can't keep up. I don't have much time-"

Tom knows, but above all, he knows he doesn't want anyone else.)

He offers no verbal response, but Harry knows him well enough to drag him to the kitchen.

"You can watch me make dinner there," Harry gestures to the stool near the counter, "Or would you like to prepare it with me?"

He takes a moment to breathe, to remind himself that he's home, now. Not slaving away to solve a case.

Then, he smiles; it's one reserved for Harry in the comfort of their home, as it always is.

There is no plastic rigidness, like the ones he politely delivers to coworkers and other pedestrians. He and Harry doesn't need that distance.

"I think I'll enjoy messing with your procedures," Tom admits, walking to his Harry until he envelops him in a hug from the back. 

"Oh, shove off." Harry pretends to be offended, but both of them know that there is a fondness to those words.

The gravel beneath his boots crunched, and he wondered if walking on bones would produce the same, lovely sound.

Well, no time than the present to start experimenting. He always did hold the scientific process close to his heart.

Once more, he arrived at the abandoned church, where his doll sat on the windowsill. 

"Darling," He ruffles the locks of dead hair, "Were you waiting for me? You shouldn't have."

He is sorry, truly, for having to tear apart his creation. He apologizes, over and over, but reminds his doll of the times they shared together.

The empty sockets seemed to hold infinity, and he would make use of it.

"Cedric Diggory," Tom read aloud, on the very list he had tasked Granger with compiling. "Reported to be missing since two weeks ago."


	3. Chapter 3

Tom's head spun with numerous theories, but he couldn't execute any of them until tomorrow. He refused to take things as they were, for those rash decisions has brought him turmoil before. It was a moral code he followed strictly.

(Harry, bleeding out on the tiles. Holding his hand and assuring _Tom_ while he was on the edge of death.)

He chugs down three cups of coffee before he goes home for the day. It's a new record Tom isn't sure Harry would be proud of.

The bag he carries is reusable.

It's an odd habit to have, because he could care less about corpses beneath his feet than the environment.

With a crooked smile, he dumps the contents onto the dusty table: confetti, paint, and his infamous strings.

An odd combination, sure, but he doesn't doubt the show will continue as planned.

After having dinner, Tom felt unusually restless. He didn't have a reason to, but he did. So he took care of the chores that evening: dusting and cleaning. Harry had to be convinced to take a rest; mouth opening in protest even as Tom took the dustpan and broom into his own hands.

The flat that they lived in was rather spacious for two men, and thus had a lot of rooms to cover.

For example, the walk-in closet that held both of their belongings. It was... extra, but had its uses.

As Tom heard footsteps, he turned to the door and found Harry looking back, slightly flustered at being found. (Really, Tom thinks that Harry should know by now. He wasn't a detective for nothing.) Curiosity or boredom got the best of him, he's sure.

"Harry, why _do_ you have an absurd number of shoes?" Tom had asked once he sidestepped to allow Harry into the closet as well. He gestured at the collection with confusion visible on his face. Sneakers that he knew Harry adored- shown by the worn- and even heels decorated the rack.

"It's nice, isn't it?" Harry puffed up a bit at that, as if they were his children- Tom wouldn't be surprised if that was the case. "My little hobby, you know. Once in a while I'll reform a pair, then gift it away."

As Tom returned to evaluating the numerous pairs of shoes, he found that yes, some looked too original to have been a mass-produced product. A cup of markers also laid nearby.

"I suppose." No, he wasn't bitter at all for letting strangers take hold of these. "At least it isn't the worst thing you could do with shoes."

"And what would that be?" Harry commented at the side, already helping him organize the space even when he was dismissed earlier.

"How should I word it... Some people don't mind using them as weapons." Tom hummed while he sorted the closet by color, deciding the choice would be aesthetically pleasing once it was done.

"Scary," Harry said from the other side, though Tom couldn't tell if Harry knew it wasn't a joke.

"I wonder how they would come to retrieve you." He sang, tilting his head back and forth to view his work better. In his eyes, it shimmered beneath the lights and made itself delightful.

It would be too risky to bring a radio and attract attention, but a tune plays in his head.

"One wrong move, and you will pummel to the sea."

_Boat._

Tom scrunched his face, seeing another fax make its way out of the machine. There was never a signature, and there never needed to be one. Despite how many times they attempted to track the source, The Puppeteer seemed to bypass them with ease.

He doesn't waste a single second, and begins handing out orders to the distressed underlings of his. They start by finding the boats that are within their area, those that have already sailed and those departing within hours. It would have to do for now, despite Tom's irritation.

Some may be exasperated at the killer's dramatic flair, but it would have been better than these overly vague clues. There was no package this time, though that could be a slight positive for the Forensics team's mental health.

So, he started to think.

As Tom had figured from the week prior, Cedric Diggory is the next victim on the killer's list. Then there was the overly simple word that just _had_ to be sent to the him. A boat. What could the two be connected by-?

No, backtrack.

Tom has heard of Diggory before The Puppeteer, but doesn't remember where from. He barely communicates to others unless necessary, and he certainly wouldn't gossip like old housewives, so where?

At least he has a starting place, Tom thinks while grumbling. He begins by entering the name into the browser search.

It takes longer than expected, dragging him from the early morning to around the afternoon.

He slightly regrets it, now.

It isn't so much the murder he's committed, but more of the lack of fireworks.

From just another glance at his doll, he's sure this will be the best one yet.

Especially if he times it perfectly.

Tom had got it.

The coffee at his desk sat untouched, but he was more focused on the display that held the information he needed.

Amos Diggory, father of Cedric Diggory. He was a helmsman who had appeared on the news around seven months ago, due to being a witness to another homicide. Though, it wasn't one done by The Puppeteer. In the same clip of the interview, the man describes dismounting his boat and seeing a knife fight occur a block away. The name of the place was told in the interview, of course.

The same place was near a bascule bridge that occasionally parted to allow boats through. Coincidentally, Amos Diggory passed through it many times throughout his career.

Boat. Tom had that down, he's sure of that.

He let the others know of his findings, which directed their next question as to _when_.

He can't take his doll into his arms anymore now that it's hung up and ready for its show to start.

So he sits on top of the bridge, smile curling on his lips and waiting for the new team of detectives assigned to him.

A simple, white mask dons his face, blank as a slate.

For a long, long while, all he does is sing a siren's song. He wonders when this particular team would break, how long they'd last.

Those who drove or walked by heard a voice call out, but despite their befuddlement, did not think of looking above them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! Hope you all are staying safe & healthy :)  
> I'm a bit worried that my writing style changed..

Everything went downhill from there.

Tom had placed a few men on the watch beforehand to ensure that any suspicious movement would not go unnoticed. Though, he did wonder at the competency of those 'watchdogs' as he looked over the list.

The office was in a state of distress on all different levels. There was obnoxious chatter, one especially distinguishable belonging to none other than Ron Weasley- who happened to be the brother of the last victim.

"Ron, I know how upset you must be feeling," Granger sounded exasperated, face flushed with sweat as she'd been arguing about the same topic for the past five minutes. "But that doesn't make it any less reckless to take 'revenge' on him."

"You _know_? No, 'Mione. You don't know how it feels to see your own sister drop dead, right in front of you." If one looked close enough, they would see the heavy bags under Weasley's eyes. His voice was hoarse, and his words eventually lowered into a whisper. "If I don't take it personally, then who will?"

Tom took a long sip from his cup, choosing to ignore the way Granger took Weasley aside to comfort him _._ He turned back to his desk, but had no chance of reviewing the files again, for someone had come running into the office.

"A boat is about to pass under the bridge in thirty minutes! T-Thought you'd ought to know.." Quirrell reported with a stutter, then swiftly ran back out.

For a moment, there was a standstill in the vicinity.

"It seems as your banters will have to wait," Tom's voice deepened with a sickening purr, "We've got prey to catch."

On the way out, he nicked a binocular, just in case.

He feels as if he is on top of the world.

His blood boils, searing to the touch. As his heart races, he wonders how it would feel in his palm- to reanimate an organ and feel the hum of life beneath his fingertips.

But alas, that would be best left for another day.

He recognizes the cars incoming, and tastes the tension in the air. It practically urges his blank expression to split into a wide grin. If it weren't for his splinter of self control, he believes he would've went weak in the knees and fallen off the bridge himself.

Although it is an idea to ponder over, The Puppeteer reminds himself that he is the entertainer, not the _entertainment_.

(It should stay that way.)

"How will we... retrieve the victim?"

The question hung in the air, going unanswered as the team casts a wary look toward the boat as a whole.

"That'll depend, won't it?" The light, almost carefree tone was none other than Luna Lovegood. "You never know what he's thinking. Perhaps he will drop it into the water?"

There was a silent agreement to not speak of the matter any further, Tom noted as he observed the pale faces.

Still, he felt a bit useless as of the moment: there was no way they could rent a boat fast enough, and no use obstructing the traffic on the bridge itself.

It was as if they were meant to be an audience to a show.

The thought brought a frown onto Tom's face.

"All we can do is wait." He mumbles more to himself than anyone else, "If The Puppeteer is as impatient as he's known to be, it won't be much longer."

There's several people keeping an eye on their phone for the time. It had taken them twenty-five or so minutes to arrive to the scene, and if Quirrell's word was to be trusted, they had little time left.

Both anticipation and dread flooded the atmosphere as cars past, headlights flickering as they drove off.

He hears it coming, and he sees it arriving. The boat is so, so close. And the bridge is about to lift-

A soft resignation laid in his gaze, almost gentle.

"You've been nothing but the sweetest," He promised to his doll beneath him, "No hard feelings, alright? After all..."

He looks at the approaching boat, one Amos Diggory on the deck.

"You can be reunited with your father."

_It's began_ , Tom realized with a start.

His team shoved each other around to acquire a better view of the boat, but he remained put. It was times like these where the small advantages of his height came into play.

Whilst they were occupied in such a manner, Tom's breath hitched as he caught sight of the bascule bridge lifting. The binoculars he brought up in his hands nearly trembled.

He sees Cedric Diggory's body strung between the bridge opening. It's gradually tearing and stretching and he wants to tell it to stop-

Tom isn't close enough to hear it, but from the way he observes the limbs tore itself out of their sockets, he reckons the sound was vile.

Confetti spilled from the corpse as it tumbled down and hit the boat's deck.

It might as well have been fireworks.

He hears a strangled, hideous scream from beneath the bridge the same time he hears a high pitched laughter from above. Perhaps the most bitterly amusing part was that it was a harmony.

Then, his mind is catching up and turning like clockwork.

"Lovegood, Malfoy." Two blondes turned to him at full attention, "Prepare for the worst and head beneath the bridge with me. The rest of you, _stay_. Notify me of any suspicious figures via text if necessary."

He sees the acknowledgement of the command and walks off. Though he didn't entirely trust anyone, he made it a point to at least trust in someone's work ethic.

The entire time, Tom thinks about the voice full of mirth. The laughter rings in his ears on loop, almost putting him into a trance. _Maybe_ , he thought morbidly, _it belonged to a siren_.

For all that the laugh sounded familiar, it was distorted enough for him to be none the wiser.

He thinks that he's been incredibly merciful this time around. After all, he did Cedric a favor in bringing him and his father together again.

He presses a hand against his mask, loosening it to take a deep breath-

Harsh wind chooses to knock it out of his hands at that very moment, making his eyes go comically wide.

Then it happens.

He isn't thinking straight, and it leads him to chase after the mask with the reach of his hands. But he's always been short; having been stunted during his growth.

As he takes another stride to shorten the distance, he missteps and slips.

He's falling, plummeting, and crashing down.


End file.
